


Cut Through the Noise

by klassmartin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Past, F/M, Heavy Angst, Mercenaries, Organized Crime, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-03-10 08:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13498096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klassmartin/pseuds/klassmartin
Summary: What should have been his easiest mission could destroy the lives of everyone around them.





	1. Sam

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have no idea if anyone is really here anymore now the show has ended, but I've been working on this story for about a year and a half and just really wanted to post it in case someone else was missing these characters. 
> 
> This story is inspired by my love of dark!Stydia, especially one that I can no longer find but involved them murdering everyone who wronged them together. While this is not at all what happens in this story, I always found the concept really interesting. It was one of the first Stydia stories I read on here (like five years ago holy crap) and it's always stuck in my mind. 
> 
> Of course, I couldn't forget to credit Rainflower, as reading that inspired me to actually take this idea from my brain to a collection of long, messy documents full of annotations and spider diagrams and song lyrics. I've written and rewritten this story in about four different ways, and this chapter has been redone at least a dozen times. I've been trying so hard to get this story perfect that I've only just given it a title (taken from The Anchor by Bastille) because nothing seems to fit it just right.
> 
> I listened to Got It by Marian Hill the entire time I wrote this first chapter if you would like some atmosphere.

Day 16, 0118 hours   
Location: Nemeton Club, Boston, MA

The music is pulsing in his chest like a second heartbeat when he sees her.

She's a whirlwind of strappy heels and green eyes framed with a thick line of kohl, a slinky black dress hugging her curves and wave after wave of red hair flowing down her back. She's mid-laugh, head thrown back as she lets someone lift her onto the edge of a bar table. She wraps a heavily bangled arm around the man's neck, patting his chest when he comes to lean beside her, talking eagerly to the dozen or so people surrounding them. He's only said a few words before she interrupts him, the group cheering loudly at whatever she's said as the man rolls his eyes. There's something fond about the way he turns to look at her, and she childishly pokes out her tongue at the face he pulls.

As the man launches back into his speech, he catches her gaze. It's just for a moment, but the way she stares at him so intensely - like she's looking straight into the black depths of his soul - puts him so on edge he starts chewing at his thumbnail.  Dark green eyes flicker down to his mouth, and then she turns her attention back to the man at the side.

The crowd begins to chant and sing _Happy Birthday_ and he almost startles at the flood of noise suddenly invading his ears as he returns to the present. Instead, his eyes dart uncertainly around the room until they pause on a woman the other side of the bar, watching her whisper into a man's ear and flick her hair over her shoulder.

When he looks back to the crowd, she's gone.

Time slips by as he continues to watch the crowd. The week is over, and the city's youth have faithfully taken to the streets to unwind and forget about their pressures and troubles. Boys dress up, girls wear less, and the night doesn't have to be anything but you and a glass in your hand, letting the beat sweep you up into a trance, bodies pressed close as your mind drifts to another realm where nothing matters but the slide of another's skin on yours and hoping the song never ends.

Except he can't seem to bring himself to move much further than nodding to the bar tender for a new drink, tapping his fingers against the sticky mahogany of the bar in a repetitive rhythm. The club is a large underground space with a lax security, if the number of high patrons is anything to go by. The round bar dominates the centre of the space, a central beam housing liqueurs of every colour and type. The six men in charge of the bar run around in circles, serving quickly and efficiently. Tables and a few chairs are pushed up against many of the walls, a smattering of leather couches cracked from years of use joining the fray. A large row of booths run along one side. The rest of the space is filled with hundreds of bodies, dancing and drinking and letting go.

"Looking for someone?"

A flash of red in his periphery catches his attention, and he twists to find the woman right beside him, somehow having approached him without alerting him.

The move makes him nervous. Not many people manage to do that.

She's so close that her chest brushes against his arm, the sequins of her dress sparkling in the flashing lights.

She continues before he can think up a response. "I saw you watching me earlier."

At this, he moves so his entire body faces her, leaning against the bar with his hip as he lets his gaze roam slowly over her. He sees now her hair is not red, more of a strawberry blonde. Only when he's reached the scarlet red of her toenails peeking out from her stilettos does he reply, "Well, you can hardly blame me. You make it kinda difficult to look anywhere else."

A perfectly maintained eyebrow rises.

"Has that line ever worked for you before?" Her arms cross and there's a fire in her gaze that does something to his chest.

"Simply an observation."

"Yes, you seem to be doing a lot of that."

He cocks his head to the side with a frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She takes a half step closer, one of her fingers trailing down the buttons of his shirt.

"Well, you see, I've been doing some observing of my own. Of you, specifically." She pauses, watching his throat as he swallows half the contents of his glass. "You've been at the bar all night but that's only your second drink. You've not spoken to anybody that's approached you. You're uncomfortable in your clothing choice that are clearly all brand new - except the shoes which, by the way, definitely do not match this outfit. And your eyes have been darting around this place like it's a game of pinball, despite the way you're trying to appear casual."

"How did you know the clothes were new?" he asks, forcing his voice to remain neutral.

One of her hands slides up his chest, over his shoulder. She bites into her full bottom lip, looking up at him through her eyelashes, as her fingers slip into the collar of his shirt and tug on something. She holds out her palm to show a small rectangle of card.

"You forgot about the tag."

Her teeth flash in the ultraviolet light as she grins and he lets the fist in his pocket relax.

"Okay, fine, you caught me." He sighs loudly. "I might, possibly, have been a little…. Stood up."

For a long moment she stares at him, and he scratches at his jaw, letting his gaze drop to his drink in embarrassment.

"What a shame." Her hand rises to flag down a bartender. "But great for me, since you look like you could use a drink, and I _definitely_ need a drink."

Within moments, a tray of amber shots appears in front of them, and she scoops it up in one hand, dragging him behind her with the other as she struts through the crowd. He is more than a little impressed at the way people seem to adjust to create a clear path for her, despite the sheer volume of bodies packed into the club. He dutifully follows her to a quiet, cordoned off area tucked into one of the many dark corners, her fingernails pressing into the vulnerable flesh of his wrist.

The tray of shots is still perfectly intact when she places it onto a table, using her grip on him to push him into one corner of the loveseat within the same movement. She perches on the other side of him, her ankles crossing as she reaches forward for the saltshaker. Her tongue licks across the back of her hand before she speaks again.

"So, this person that stood you up. How important are they?"

He's still staring at the patch of her skin that is now coated in salt when he responds, "Not - Not important at all."

Suddenly there's a glass in his hand, and he swallows the tequila down as he watches her drink her own, lips wrapping sinfully around the lime as she sucks on the juice.

"Good. What's your name?"

"Sam."

"I'm Lydia."

"Nice to meet you, Lydia."

"Next?"

"Absolutely."

Except this time, it's his hand she takes, holding it palm up. She leans down and her hair is tickling his arm, distracting enough that he nearly jumps when the flat of her tongue sweeps over the delicate skin of his wrist. Something cold presses into his hand and when she sits up straight again, he deposits some of the salt onto the wet skin, ignoring the ripple of goosebumps ghosting across his entire body. Instead, he reaches for a lime, gripping the fruit between his teeth and meeting her challenging gaze.

The whole thing is over too quickly, her nose brushing his as she sucks at the lime's juice.

And since he has never been able to resist a challenge, he drops to his knees in front of her.

Lydia shifts in her seat, her dress rising just enough that he catches a glimpse of her pastel blue underwear. She stares down at him, pupils blown wide enough to turn her gaze black as night, and her lips part around a shallow breath.

Reaching over his shoulder, she takes the three elements, placing them strategically and then leaning back against one hand when she's finished.

The salt is rough against his tongue but the skin beneath it is tantalizingly smooth. His hands stroke up her thighs as he lingers there, letting the tip of his tongue slip dangerously towards her centre. As he eases up her body she spreads her legs for him to slip between until he reaches the neckline of her dress. The scent of her perfume, something floral and sharp and pleasantly filling his head, almost derails him from the task at hand.

He wraps his mouth around the glass pressed into her cleavage, throwing back his head and feeling the burn of alcohol in his throat. Disposing of the glass, he presses a feather soft kiss to her collarbone before reaching the lime, his lips brushing hers as he takes it from her. At some point she's stopped breathing completely, her small hands have found a place at his hips, and her eyes have fluttered shut.

He retreats back to his side of the loveseat, smirking as she gasps out a breath. When her eyes open, she's glaring at him, clearly unhappy with the response he's pulled from her. He relaxes into the backrest, surprised at how much he's enjoying his seduction.

Brows furrowed, Lydia shifts closer to him until she's pressed against him. He stretches his arm across the back of the seat to let her even closer. Her tongue sweeps across her lip as she studies him and he studies her right back, from the dusting of glitter across her chest to the blood red of her nail polish, the small ink stain on the inside of her left wrist to the varying tones of her hair. Something about her crackles like a live wire, seems wild and unpredictable and sinful. Her green eyes are alight in the artificial lights of the club and he thinks she might just be the most dangerous woman he's ever met.

She's glorious.

"What are you thinking about?" She leans closer to whisper it into his ear, her bottom lip grazing his earlobe. 

"You," he admits, as she twists to straddle his thighs. His close proximity means he hears her breath hitch, and he has to bit his tongue to suppress his smirk. The thin fabric of her dress slips under the press of his hands at her waist and she wraps her arms around his shoulders, shifting forward until their chests are pressed tightly together.

"Oh, really? What about me?"

They're so close he could count every individual eyelash, every freckle adorning her cheekbones, and all he can think about is how much he wants her.

"Lydia! Time to go."

The gruff voice makes them both jump, and Lydia's upper lip curls into something he'd almost consider a snarl.

"Can't you see I'm a little busy?" she hisses between clenched teeth, not bothering to turn towards the man towering over them, blond hair swept back in that effortless way that probably took a lot of effort.

"Lydia." It's one word that clearly hides so many more, and it's somehow enough to get the redhead to retreat off his lap and yank the stranger far enough away to escape his hearing. For a few minutes there is an intense exchange of words, Lydia's fists clenching and unclenching at her sides before she stomps her foot in anger and brushes him off, coming back to him with such a stormy expression he almost doesn't recognise her.

"I'm sorry, I have to go."

Disappointment flickers across his expression as he rises to his feet. "Really? Are you sure?"

"I have… Some business to attend to." She reaches up, pressing her lips against the corner of his mouth. "Until next time."

Before he can say another word, Lydia walks away, the man close on her heels, and he is left alone.

Stiles pulls out his phone  and hits the first speed dial.

"Mission aborted. Target is approaching second exit with unidentified male. Follow them."


	2. A Package Deal

Day 1, 1429 hours   
Location: Unknown

This is everything he knows when he comes to:

  * There's a force holding down his legs. Semi-decent chance of escape.
  * He's face down and lying on something scratchy, something padded - maybe a makeshift cot?
  * His hands aren't bound, which is suspicious but a possible blessing if he can get to the knife tucked into his belt.
  * There’s a noise, like an echo of hushed voices, no more than 100 feet away. One male, one female; both American.
  * The air smells of smoke and something sweet, something out of place and almost forgotten.



He keeps his body still, muscles tense and ready, his breathing controlled. Being captured is nothing new; he can handle this. All he needs is the element of surprise.

The male sighs, heavy and deep. Whispers something about a mistake.

"There's no other way."

He lets his hand twitch an inch closer to his belt.

There's a crackle, like plastic sheeting.

“Stiles? You awake, buddy?”

_Fuck._

That voice - he knows that voice better than he knows his own. He could pick it out of a crowd of a million with just one syllable uttered. He's spent a lifetime with that voice, and he's not about to let him die; not here, not yet. He has too much to live for. This is not how his best friend dies.

If Scott is here, he needs to get them out. _Now._

His thumb tucks around the handle of the knife.

Footsteps approaching on his left.

He silently counts to three.

Within a second and a half, Stiles is upright and free, knife to the throat of his captor, his arm securing the body against his own. There's no way he goes down without taking at least one of the guys with him.

“Stiles, no!”

The female is behind him, and he whirls them around, the blade pressing deeper into the frail skin protecting the man’s carotid artery.

"One step and he dies," he orders, voice cold and detached, a snarl cutting across his lips.

A tentative hand stretches towards him in surrender, her fingertips trembling. He keeps his gaze locked on her, letting his peripheral catalogue the details around him. It's not the back alley torture chamber he was expecting, but he can work with this.

A warm touch to his wrist makes him flinch. Something hot and red drips onto his hand.

“Stiles, it’s me. You’re okay. Everyone is okay.”

Only when he hears the voice again does Stiles let the familiarity of the room seep into him. It's warm and spacious, everything soothing tones of cream and lavender. As he looks around the space, he finally remembers. The walls he had helped paint. The photos littering the walls from high school; the wedding; summer barbeques and winter vacations. The two Purple Heart's proudly displayed on top of the mantel.

Anxiety holds his body in lockdown. His heart is pounding in his ears, his throat. His vision begins to blur.

Stiles glances to the man pulled against him, and he lets the angles of Scott’s face comfort him. Feels Scott's lungs expanding and contracting against his chest. Somehow he’s smiling, his touch still ghosting across his arm as he patiently waits for Stiles to return to reality. 

Lifting the hand from Scott's shoulder, he counts his fingers.

_One, two, three, four, five._

The knife clatters against the floorboards.

“Shit. _Fuck_ , Scott, I’m sorry. 

Scott turns but makes no move to step away, gripping his arms to ground him. He looks only at Stiles with concern. “You with me, bro?”

With a hesitant nod, Stiles turns to Kira, who is leaning against the doorframe and studying the wood grains as she regains control of her emotions, tear tracks staining her flushed cheeks. “Kira, I’m sorry.”

Her dark eyes lock on him and despite normally towering over her, he feels like he’s looking up at a giant. There’s an edge to her that slices through his chest. He feels her analysing him, taking in every inch of him before she finally speaks, her voice unsteady.

“It hasn’t happened that bad in a while.” Kira walks towards him and strokes a healing cut by his ear as Stiles tries to get his bearings.

“I-I wasn’t… I don't -" He huffs out a breath through his teeth to gain a modicum of control. "How long was I out?”

“Fifteen hours.” Scott nods towards the now recognisable fold-out couch. “You didn’t move for so long I think Doug assumed you were part of the furniture.”

 _Ah_. The weight.

Stiles bends down to scratch behind the Labrador’s ears, whispering a quick apology for kicking him. Doug just wags his tail and licks his cheek.

Kira clears her throat.

“There’s pancakes on the counter, orange juice in the fridge. I managed to clean your shoes but your shirt was a lost cause; I had to burn it.” She says it with indifference, like she's talking about the weather, but Stiles knows she is still scared. Knowing his friend is so terrified of him makes him keel over, scrubbing at the stubble on his cheeks as he tries to relax into the sofa.

Adjusting the glasses on her nose, Kira leaves the room with a swish of hair. As always, she says more in her silence than her words.

Scott perches on the arm rest and digs the heel of his hand into his leg as he appraises his best friend, a habit that flares up whenever his best friend returns home like this. Stiles tries to remember if he'd showered, if he'd done anything but barge into the house, take off his shirt and shoes, and crash into the sofa.

Scott cringes, exhaling sharply through his nose.

Guilt robs the breath from his lungs. His toes are numb. Stiles wonders if the man beside him has nightmares about the past too, if he's still hardwired to think he'll never be truly safe again.

"How's the heart rate?" Scott asks, his tone as relaxed as Kira's just moments before.

"It's fine. I was just… disorientated."

Stiles searches the floor for his pack, pulling a semi-clean shirt out and tugging it over his head. Scott wants to talk about it, but Stiles doesn't like to talk about anything anymore. He prefers to listen, let his best friend fill his mind with images of the life he might have had too; date nights, dinner with their couple friends, a home and a stable job and someone who makes them happy.

“You know I don’t like to ask,” Scott begins anyway, scratching his uneven jaw as he hesitates.

“Then don’t.”

“Stiles, you were a wreck.”

He grinds his teeth as he stretches up high, his spine cracking in two places. “I told you, I’m fine.”

Scott raises his eyebrows in that way that simultaneously tells Stiles that he’s an idiot and to stop thinking his best friend is dense.

“I saw you.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Saw what?”

“When you got here. You… You were covered in…”

“I had a job. It got messy.” Stiles shrugs, even though he feels anything but casual inside.

“A lot of your jobs recently have been messy. 

Scott is now giving him the Look of Disapproval, crossed over with the I Am Highly Concerned Look. Stiles sinks back into the couch, running his fingers through his matted hair. 

“I’m just worried about you,” Scott continues, watching him frown at the dried blood under his nails.

“Scott, stop. We agreed when we came home -”

Scott cuts him off with a fury in his tone he's never heard before.

“Fuck what we agreed. I didn’t know then what I know now.”

The air is making him itchy, the tension clinging to him, threatening to drag him under. He twitches away from Scott’s attempted touch and slips into the kitchen for a brief escape.

Scott, of course, follows him.

“When was the last time you took your meds?”

Stiles looks into the fridge longer than he needs to, returning with a beer bottle.

“Stiles. Your meds.”

“They do jack shit.”

“They can’t help if you’re not consistent with it.”

Stiles lowers the half-empty bottle. “I don’t need meds, Scott.”

_I need… I need…_

Scott maintains his distance, rubbing his fingertips across the shallow cut on his neck. It isn't bleeding anymore, no deeper really than a papercut, but Stiles knows that with an extra flick to his wrist, one of the most important people left in his life could be bleeding out right now in the other room. The image makes him swallow around the taste of bile.

“What do you need?”

Stiles stares at him for a long time, the words refusing to slip out. His glare does the talking for him.

There's something in the way that Scott looks at him that makes Stiles know without a doubt that his best friend - _his_ brother - is fully aware of what he did less than 24 hours ago. That Stiles had strolled into this house stained with the blood of too many men, and Scott had watched him without saying a word about it. How long has Scott known the only secret Stiles has ever kept from him? How long has he sat by and been forced to witness his oldest friend become the monster that stands before him today?

“I'm so sorry, Stiles."

He blanches, the last dregs of beer sloshing around the bottle. "What for?"

"I wish I'd never let you talk me into that last mission. I wish I'd made sure we kept our promise to leave.” Scott goes to walk away, twisting the heel of his palms into his eyes. “I wish more than anything that I’d bought you home sooner.”

* * *

 

Day 1, 1611 hours   
Location: ~~Unknown~~ The McCall-Yukimura Residence, Beacon Hills, CA

"What the hall happened to your back?"

Stiles grimaces. He turns to the brunette perched on the end of his bed, gripping the towel around his waist. Tendrils of steam are floating into the bedroom from the shower he's just emerged from. He'd been in there until the water had run cold, hammering down onto his back as he watched the reds and browns wash away into the plughole. It had taken forty minutes to scrub his body clean, but he can still feel the blood coating his palms.

Confused by her statement, Stiles walks back into the bathroom  and wipes the mirror clean. In the reflection he sees a deep gash running just under his right shoulder blade.

"Oh. I didn't even feel it."

Kira reaches around him, pulling a first aid kit out of the cupboard beside him. He wonders when she started keeping one here as well as the kit under the stairs.

"Go sit down, I'll get it patched up."

He follows orders and sits in the space she had occupied moments ago. Behind him, he hears Kira unzipping the pouch, the rustle of different items being removed. The pair remain silent; Kira focused on her task, Stiles looking studiously around the room. Technically, it's the spare room, but it's been referred to as his since Scott and Kira moved in two years ago. It's a relatively plain room, blue accents brightening the space that lacks many personal touches. There's a collection of photo frames on top of the dresser that Stiles has already put face down - that Kira will right when he leaves again - and an old cologne on the bedside table. A half dozen shirts are hanging in the wardrobe and there's probably a few pairs of jeans in the bottom drawer. It's a room that holds the few possessions he has in this world; some clothes, a handful of toiletries, and the box under the bed he hasn't opened since he was eighteen. 

"This might sting," Kira mutters, disturbing his train of thought. The smell of antiseptic fills his nose.

Minutes pass in a comfortable silence before he remembers. "So what did you want to talk about?"

"What do you mean?"

"I assume you were in here for a reason." Stiles feels her begin to apply the dressing, then pause.

"I was." Kira resumes her task. "But it can wait."

"Are you sure?" He turns to her, brow furrowed in concern. She's biting her lip, fiddling with the medical tape between her fingers, avoiding his gaze.

"No." She glances up at him but fixes her eyes on his jaw, tapping it with two fingers in a silent instruction to turn back around. "I'm just not sure on how to say it… To ask."

Twisting around to face her fully, he takes both her hands between his own. "Kira, you can always talk to me, you know that right?"

"Yes," she responds immediately, eyes shining with tears. 

"And I'd do anything for you."

"Yes." Kira laces their fingers together. He feels a tremor run through her. "That's what I'm afraid of. 

"Stiles? Kira?"

Scott's voice reverberates through the house, disturbing their moment. Seconds later, the man in question appears at the threshold, glancing between the pair anxiously.

"Kira…"

"You can relax, okay? I didn't -"

"Kira, we talked ab-"

"Scott, stop. Nothing happened." Kira clears her throats and her voice returns to its usual volume. "I have to go start dinner."

Kira leaves the room so quickly that Stiles barely catches the movement. Confused, he looks towards Scott, who is scratching his knee and his neck at the same time.

In all his years of knowing them, Stiles has never seen his best friends so much as raise their voices at each other. The only remotely uncomfortable moment he'd experienced was the disaster of their first kiss. 

"What the fuck was that about?" he demands, rising from the bed to approach Scott.

"Nothing," Scott says sharply. "Just forget about it."

Which is exactly what he's _not_ going to do.

* * *

 

Day 4, 1903 hours   
Location: The McCall-Yukimura Residence, Beacon Hills, CA

Scott McCall has been his best friend for longer than Stiles can remember. According to legend (or Scott's mum, take your pick), they had met at four years old in a sandbox, when Scott had saved his sandcastle from collapsing and Stiles had given him half his peanut butter sandwich in return. That day two things came to pass: the beginning of a time-defying friendship, and the discovery of Scott's peanut allergy.

At the age of six, Scott fell out of a tree, and the only reason he didn't break his back was Stiles breaking his fall.

When his mom got sick, Scott slept beside him on his own bedroom floor for two weeks so Stiles wouldn't be alone while his dad worked overtime. He had returned the sentiment a few years later, when Scott's dad got drunk enough to knock him down the stairs. On the way to the hospital, Stiles had slashed three of his tyres (though it didn't stop him leaving the next day).

One night during sophomore year, they found a dead body together.

And when Stiles decided to join the army, Scott delayed his college application because he knew Stiles couldn't do it alone.

They have spent their entire life at each other's sides, through fourteen years of school and three years of service. It's been Scott and Stiles, no matter what, always and forever.

Which is why Stiles has no idea how the fuck he's let Scott make it to 25 without seeing Stars Wars.

“I mean I’ve always known that Darth Vader is Luke’s father, but actually _seeing_ it…”

“Greatest moment in movie history.”

“What. A. Twist.”

Stiles throws his popcorn in the air and catches it between his front teeth. “Oh, just you wait.”

Scott crumples the empty pack of Doritos and tosses it onto the coffee table. Scattered around them are empty pizza boxes from lunch and the leftover Chinese from the night before, and the decorative pillows that Stiles hates and always throws across the room whenever he's there. It feels like they're teenagers again, like they're just Scott and Stiles with their whole lives ahead of them, but with no real desire to do anything but watch films and play video games and spend all of their money on too much takeout.

“I get it. I thought you were insane obsessing over these movies but… I get it.”

“And we’ve still got so much left to watch, I mean the prequels are shoddy but who doesn’t love Ewan McGregor?! So we’re good for a little while -”

The front door opens and Kira steps over the threshold, her hair thrown haphazardly into a ponytail, laden with tote bags full of high school history papers.

Instantly, the relaxed vibe of their day changes to the quiet tension that has been surrounding the couple since their heated exchange three days ago. Whatever the issue is between them, it's been vehemently denied any time he's asked, only to be discussed in hushed voices at night when they've gone to bed.

He's had enough.

"Where are you going?" Scott asks, poorly attempting to keep his voice neutral.

"To help your poor wife, since you don't seem to be offering."

Stiles jumps over the back of the sofa and offers a welcoming smile to the woman in front of him, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek as he takes half the load.

"Thank you." Kira returns the smile sincerely, walking just far enough to dump her share of bags inside the office. Kira presses her hands to her lower back as she stretches out her muscles, rolling her eyes fondly as Stiles starts to do bicep curls with the bags. "If you're going to tease me, I'm not going to make you any tea."

Immediately he drops the bags, following her towards the kitchen.

Scott meets them in the hallway, wrapping an arm around his wife's shoulders. "I have to go, there's an emergency at the hospital. All hands on deck."

Stiles makes a clicking noise with his tongue. "Pity. I was going to make your favourite tonight."

Scott looks a little torn between his responsibility and his love of sausages, before sighing deeply. 

"Maybe you can save me some for when I get back." Scott claps him on the arm as a farewell, kissing Kira sweetly before he grabs his coat from the rack by the door.

"Love you," Kira says with a tight smile. It's enough that, just for a moment, Stiles thinks they're both okay again. 

But then Scott's eyes dart back and forth between them, something in his expression that Stiles hasn't seen for years, and the tension returns.

Kira shakes her head, clearly understanding what Scott refuses to say aloud. "I won't."

And then Scott is gone, and Kira is flitting around the kitchen as if that moment never happened.

_Won't what?_

It takes a large serving of dinner and desert accompanied by a bottle of red wine, but finally he gets Kira in the right mood to get it out of her.

"Are you and Scott okay?" he broaches quietly, leaning against the back rest of the sofa to watch her at the other end.

"Of course we are."

Stiles raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

"We're great," she insists, concentrating on stroking a finger around the lip of her wine glass. "We're just having a bit of a disagreement over something." 

"Is it because of me? My being here?" 

He feels like a child who is waiting for the divorce conversation. It's simultaneously amusing and terrifying.

"You're always welcome here, Stiles. This is your home."

"Things are just so… There's something going on and I can't figure out what's wrong. I understand if this is something private but -"

"Private?" Kira laughs. "Nothing is private from you, Stiles. I may be legally married to Scott, but we all know there's three people in this marriage. Ever since I moved here at sixteen, it's been the three of us. But before that, it was the two of you. Scott and Stiles. You're a package deal. I married both of you."

"But he gets all the perks," he jokes to ease the intensity of the moment. Kira nudges him with her toe, a warm smile spreading across her face. "It's not been just Scott and I in a long time. It's the three of us now; _we're_ the package deal."

Kira flushes a gentle pink. "Yeah?"

"Of course, don't you ever doubt it." He leans forward conspiratorially, and whispers, "Sometimes, I think I might actually love you more than him."

She splutters out a laugh, head thrown back to show off her teeth, and Stiles can't help but join in.

"I've missed you," she confesses after a sip of wine, watching him with her wise eyes that seem to know everything about him, even the parts he hides away. "You were away for longer than usual this time."

He doesn't know what else to say, so he sticks to the simple truth.

"I missed you, too."

Something shifts in her expression, like a wave of determination has washed over her, and she puts down her glass in favour of taking his hand, shifting closer to him on the sofa.

"That's what makes this so difficult for me." Kira strokes a thumb over his knuckles, wiping at tears he hadn't even seen begin. Brown eyes capture his, and she takes a shaky breath before continuing.

"I need to hire you to do something very important."

Ugh, and he'd just gotten out the last of the blood from under his nails this morning.


	3. The Death Sentence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira's mission causes tension.

Day 5, 0330 hours   
Location: The McCall-Yukimura Residence, Beacon Hills, CA

When Scott walks back through the door, it's to the determined face of his best friend, and the guilty eyes of his wife. His own eyes, shadowed from the things he had seen that evening at work, instantly fill with betrayal.

Stiles almost doesn't notice. He's too focused on the pad of paper in his lap.

"No."

It's muttered so quietly you could be forgiven for not hearing it at all, but the weight it carries draws his attention as Kira shrinks into herself.

"No? What do you mean, no?" Stiles asks incredulously.

"Exactly that. No. It's not happening."

Scott strips out of his coat and walks into the kitchen, Stiles hot on his heels.

"How can you say that? Kira is trying -"

"To get you killed!"

The yell bounces around the kitchen and cuts into him a hundred different ways, but Stiles remains firm in his stance.

"She's trying to help."

"Scott," Kira pleads from behind Stiles, tears streaking down her face. "I don't have another choice."

"Yes, you do." Scott pulls her close, gripping her forearms in his hands. "We can hire a private investigator."

"A PI can't do what Stiles can."

"Guys, I -"

"What you're asking could get him - I can't lose him, Kira, we can't lose him."

"You're not going to. It's probably the easiest job I've done."

Scott looks at him with a burning gaze, a new kind of desperation clawing out of his throat. “Stiles,” he croaks, all his usual joy washed away. “Please…”

“It's my job, Scotty.”

"No. What you do is not a job, Stiles. What you do is… it's a death sentence." Scott sniffs against the tears filling his eyes. "And I won't be the one to send you to it."

"I don't want that either," Kira explains quietly. "You know I hate what he does just as much as you, and I would never do this if it wasn't absolutely necessary."

Stiles isn't exactly surprised by the confirmation that his best friends despise what he does for a living. That's easy to pick up from the avoidance of ever mentioning it, the anxiety quivering through Kira every time he hugs her goodbye, the clenching of Scott's jaw whenever he sees any of the two dozen scars littering his body. If he's honest, he kinda hates it too.

But how does he leave it all behind? This is the only thing Stiles really knows how to do, and there's nothing easy about walking away from that.

"While your concern is noted, it doesn't change anything." Stiles waits until Scott is looking at him again before continuing, making sure his tone expresses what he needs to convey. "You and I both know that she's been carrying this with her since we met. This isn't just a normal mission; this is important to Kira, and Kira is important to me, so I'm doing this whether you like it or not."

Scott's expression is pained, and Kira curls her hands around his bicep, resting her forehead on his shoulder as she whispers, "Please, Scott."

"I'll call in a favour with B, gather the team. It'll take a week; two tops."

* * *

 

Day 5, 0703 hours   
Location: The McCall-Yukimura Residence, Beacon Hills, CA

There's a crackling at the end of the line followed by some quiet muttering.

"Hey, B? You there?" When there's no response, he calls, "Braeden?"

A deep voice croaks back. "'Sup, Stilinski?"

Braeden is - for lack of a better word - his boss, and is always straight to the point, no fuss or frills necessary. It is what drew Stiles to her two and a half years ago. There's a ferocity about her that feels familiar, like looking in a mirror, and he's never seen her smile at anyone but her son. She's ruthless and wears the thick scars across her neck like a medal of valour. Braeden gets the job done, gets it done well, and her clinical approach is what makes her his best boss to date.

Except it is not her voice he hears. “Lahey? What the - Get off the fucking phone."

"Okay." The line cuts and Stiles swears loudly into the emptiness of his room.

When he redials, he's relieved to be greeted by the correct person. "What do you want?"

"Why the fuck is Lahey answering your phone?"

Braeden scoffs. "Not all of us need to escape to the other side of the country after every job." 

"It's so I can escape him."

"When are the two of you going to finally bang this feud out?" 

Stiles nearly chokes on his own spit at the very idea of- He feels queasy just thinking about it. "Are you shitting me right now?"

“When have you ever known me to joke around?”

Stiles sighs, stomping down the stairs and into the kitchen to escape the conversation topic. Fingers grasping at his hair, he considers the correct way to approach this. “I need a favour."

"What kind of favour?"

"It's… Personal. I could do with your help."

There's a tense moment of silence before Braeden responds. "Come to base. We'll talk there." 

The call ends and Stiles paces back and forth across the tiles, twisting his phone in his hands as he considers his next move. He's likely about to do even more damage to his relationships.

The back door opens and Kira wheezes as she enters the kitchen, hunched over in her gym gear as she catches her breath. There's a sheen of sweat across her entire body and the tips of her ponytail cling to the back of her neck.

"How was your run?" he greets, exchanging his phone for a glass of chilled water for her.

"Horrible," she gasps after gulping half the glass down. "How you and Scott enjoy it is beyond me."

"We're probably just conditioned to like it."

Kira huffs a laugh and straightens up, only now looking at him. When she sees him leaning against the kitchen counter, drumming his fingers erratically onto the surface, she sighs a quiet, "Oh."

The quiet thud of her glass being placed on the kitchen table reverberates around the room.

"I thought you said -"

"I know."

“It's only been three days.”

“I know.”

Kira raises a sculpted eyebrow. “You promised a week.”

He winces. “I know.”

Wiping some of the sweat from her face with the back of her hand, she watches him pull her favourite brand of green tea out of the cupboard. He prepares the drink through the increasing tension in the room. This mission is important to her, but so is he, and her hesitance to lose him again is currently overpowering her desire to fix the problem.

“So I suppose we're not going to find new curtains on Saturday.”

She says it casually but he knows better; her hands are curled into fists against her ribs and she's tapping out that beat with her toe that she only does when he's done something to upset her.

Stiles hands the steaming mug over as a silent apology. There's nothing he hates more than the look of admonishment on her face. While he has spent most of his life disappointing Scott, he has never quite gotten used to disappointing her.

“When I'm back, it'll be my first priority. Promise.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll take Hayden.”

Kira stopped holding him to his promises a long time ago.

Stiles scoffs. “The new English sub? Please.”

“She seems nice!”

“You hate ‘nice’. You like snarky and adorable and pretending to hate housework so you can watch Scott do his weird dish-washing dance.”

Kira gives a full body laugh despite her anger, and suddenly Stiles is sixteen again.

During Junior Year, Kira Yukimura had moved to Beacon Hills and - quite literally - stumbled into their lives. Scott had caught her, and Stiles had saved a quarter of her lunch from hitting the cafeteria floor. She'd been so grateful that the next day, Kira bought in her dad's best sushi for them to share at lunch. Scott had mistaken wasabi for guacamole, and as Kira patted him on the back and encouraged him to drink her juice, Stiles had known. Their twosome was over, and Scott and Kira would become the most perfect couple to ever grace the Earth. Since that day, Stiles considers watching their relationship flourish to be the highlight of his life (and, okay, so getting to be both best man and mister of honour was a pretty sweet deal too).

Kira's grin fades as she finally catches his faraway gaze. “You have to come home, Stiles.”

He looks away and shrugs. “I always come home.”

But she doesn't let him retreat; she steps closer, trading her mug to grip his wrists with small fingers, biting her lip as she blinks away the moisture in her eyes. “That's not what I mean. After this mission, you have to come home. For real this time. No more pretending. We need you to be here."

He doesn't know what to say to erase the hurt in her eyes so he just lets her hold him, hoping that it will somehow be enough, knowing it never will be.

* * *

 

Day 5, 0927 hours  
Location: The McCall-Yukimura Residence, Beacon Hills, CA

It takes Stiles four minutes to collect his belongings, and twenty two to say goodbye to his best friends. Kira hugs him for too long and her tears stain the sleeve of his t-shirt. Scott grips his elbow like he'll blow away in the breeze if he dares to let go.

It's a song and dance they've done a hundred times, so when Stiles clears his throat and deposits Kira into her husband's arms, Scott is already saluting him. Stiles reassembles his face into what is more a grimace than a smile, and returns the gesture.

"Text me when you're coming back," Kira says as she wipes at her wet cheeks with the sleeves of her jumper. "I'll make sure to have your favourite ready."

"I'll hold you to that."

"Stiles." Scott nods, grinding his teeth against the words he can't say.

"Scotty," Stiles replies, fiddling with the keys in his hands. "I'll see you soon."

"Be safe." When Stiles winces, Scott corrects himself, "Be okay."

Stiles stumbles over his words as he tries to summarise everything he wants them to know. "You, um, you need - I want you to know… I, uh - I… I'm gonna… I'll miss you. A-and I-"

Kira takes pity on him. 

"Love you too," she whispers, her grip tightening on Scott's hand.

Only when he's inside the car does Stiles allow the tears clawing at his throat to spill. He hits the gas, drives away from his home, and tries desperately not to look back at the family he's never deserved.

* * *

 

Day 5, 2116 hours  
Location: 'Base', Armonk, NY

Braeden's home is exactly the opposite of where you would expect a woman like her to live. The large two storey home boasts a sweeping driveway and expansive garden, with an indoor pool and at least six bedrooms. The front door is big enough for the taxi to drop him directly in the foyer, which is decorated just like the rest of the house; expensive paintings he doesn't know how to interpret, lavish carpets he's afraid to step on even with his shoes off, and a bizarre amount of marble. He's also pretty sure there's a tennis court somewhere on the property. There is definitely a home cinema in the basement - he's even been allowed inside it on two occasions.

The woman who answers the door is the house's contradiction.

Braeden is dressed completely in black, her hair flowing down her back, expression pulled into the familiar scowl. He can just make out the edges of the tattoos that wrap around both biceps, her shirt hiding them away from the judging neighbours she despises so much. Thick eyeliner frames her dark eyes as they flicker over him, taking in his rumpled attire and hair that is likely pointing in every direction after tugging at it for the entire flight.

"What the fuck took you so long?" is the first thing she says as he steps around her to enter the house.

"I had to make a stop." Stiles pulls two bottles of painfully expensive scotch out of his duffel bag, the kind he knows to be her favourite.

"This must be a pretty big favour." Braeden accepts the bottles and glides silently on bare feet towards the ornate arch to the left, through which is the shiny, modern, barely used kitchen.

Stiles turns instead to the arch on the right, kicking off his dirty sneakers and entering the living area. Two plush corner sofas take up most of the space, facing towards a screen where some kind of basketball match is playing. The wall to his left is covered completely by a library of books impeccably organised, while the one parallel boasts expansive windows, hidden away by floor to ceiling curtains. It's exactly like a room straight from a interior design magazine, except for the smattering of toys lingering at the edges.

“Lahey.” Stiles drops his pack with a thudinto an empty corner. “I was hoping you were dead.”

Isaac Lahey, the scrawniest man over six foot that he’s ever met, is cleaning the barrel of his gun at the coffee table. He's sarcastic in a way that almost puts Stiles to shame, and he's hated the older man since they were assigned to their first mission together a year ago; hostage negotiation for the youngest son of a New York crime boss.

Isaac doesn’t even give him a cursory glance, just carries on polishing his most prized possession.

“Unfortunate for me, since now we have to spend time together.”

“If this is how the next few weeks are going to go, I’m gonna take you both out myself.”

A brunette skips into the room, a blood red apple gripped loosely in one hand. Stiles grins, holding his fist out towards his partner. “Argent.”

“Stilinski.” She bumps her fist against his. “Wanna tell me why you've abandoned your week off?"

“You're going to need to settle in for that.”

Allison Argent is a walking bombshell. Literally. Her specialities focus on explosives, but she’s also one of the best snipers he’s ever worked with, and he counts it a privilege to have been saved by her more times than he can count on both hands, back when they were in the same unit. She'd been Scott's almost-rebound when he and Kira broke up after graduation, thinking they couldn't manage long distance. Three months later, after she'd sufficiently berated the poor guy, Scott and Kira were engaged and Allison became one of the three people Stiles considers a friend.

Dropping into the cushion opposite Isaac, Allison takes another bite of her apple and kicks off her ankle boots. It's a move Braeden would literally kill anyone for doing, but Allison mysteriously gets a free pass for. "Done. Now, who do I need to kill?"

"My answer to that question will always be him." Stiles nods towards Isaac, taking a seat beside her.

"Don't tempt me." 

"If you get blood on my new rug, I'll spend several weeks inventing new ways to cause you intense pain and suffering."

Braeden walks in holding one of the bottles of scotch and four glasses and busies herself preparing them each a drink. When each of them have taken a sip and relaxed into their seats, she takes it upon herself to ask the most obvious question.

“So. What's the mission?”

Stiles clears his throat, setting his drink aside so he can wring his hands together. After a moment, he looks to each of his team before speaking.

"We're going to save Lydia Martin."


End file.
